Tonight's Sky

Tonight’s Sky

Wisps of hot red and orange clouds
hang on the horizon
like fires in reverse.
Splattering rains
spray into the heat
of brilliant skies
which burn and spark,
but never stop the glow.
Only darkness
from the setting sun
douses the feisty flames,
and sends purple plumes
of cumulus smoke
towering into the twilight.

I grew up in Sunset, Utah. It's a small town in size: approximately two miles long and a half mile wide. On most evenings, we could stand in the front or backyard and watch the sun set. We always had the best sunsets and as kids we would talk about how beautiful they were and what a neat blessing it was to live in a town named after such beauty.

If we happened to be up by the main highway, we could see clear out past the Great Salt Lake--almost to Nevada. We could see Antelope Island, and Fremont Island, and Promontory Point. From that vantage, the lake would look like a strip of blue, gray, or bright silver depending on the weather, time of day, and angle of the sun. Sometimes, I would see the scene as a landscape painting. The artist able to place the Great Salt lake  horizontally across the canvas with one long stroke of his brush. I used to think that Fremont Island was an old Volcano because of it's shape. On nights of orange and red setting sun, it wasn't difficult to image fire and lava shooting from the top of Fremont Island.

We played night games as children.  We played the regular kid's games-- "No Bears are out Tonight", "Red Rover", "Red Light, Green Light", "Tag", and games we made up on our own. Imagination could keep us going until it was too dark to see. The games could go on for hours--the only interruption was the sound of moms calling their kids home for supper.  This caused disgruntled voices begging the rest of us to wait until they returned to continue play.

Below the tracks lay the wilderness. Large expanses of field corn so tall it could hide a monster. The corn's sweet smell and the feel of humid air around it could be sensed on hot summer days. Parents warned that we shouldn't venture too far into the fields or we could become lost and never found. I remember thinking, if it happened to me, I would at least have plenty of corn to eat.

As we got older we would explore deeper into this wilderness. We would ride our bikes down to the pollywogs ponds and fill bottles with pond water and pollywogs. These we would bring home and watch for hours. Some of the pollywogs would die, but some would sprout legs and transform into frogs. Eventually we were brave enough to ride our bikes down to Patterson's farm. Patterson's had some larger ponds and we would watch older boys catch carp with canned corn as bait. We would walk the canal and look at the animal tracks in the mud, and watch muskrats swim. We could smell the pungent odor of silage piled high in the pits. We marveled at all of Patterson's cows and how much manure they could produce. After hours of exploring, we had to return home. I remember I hated the ride home because it was uphill and I was already tired and hungry from all the exploring. We could quench our thirst on the way back by drinking from the yard that had the pipe with well water flowing out of it. It had an iron or metallic taste that I disliked but it was a lifesaver on the ride home from the wilderness.

Times have changed. All the corn fields are now subdivisions and stores. I don't see many kids playing night games outside in the evenings. I have to drive to Ogden Bay to find wilderness. I live in  a nearby town adjacent to where I grew up. I work over the hill, closer to the mountains. On my drive home from work, at the right times of year, I come out of town and crest a small hill by the airport. From there, I can see the whole western vista. I can see Antelope Island, Fremont Island, Promontory Point, Great Salt Lake. Though much of the foreground has changed with houses and businesses, the area out where the sun sets remains the same. When I have the time, I will drive slower or pull off the side of the road and watch the colors form in the sky. I think of those simple times. I wonder where the neighborhood kids ended up. I then drive home and ask my wife and kids: Did you see tonight's sky? Did you see the sunset?

STREAMSIDE TROUT

Streamside Trout

Orange flesh inside matches the outside belly.
Red dots, blue halos, mottled olive, worm-like skin,
disappear in folded foil turned gold by fire.
Sounds of sizzling and splattering,
singe the evening silence.
Like a wildflower blooming in spring,
the folds of tin are opened.
Aromas of wood smoke and fish
rise toward the tops of pines,
faint ghosts caught in the breeze.
Poached opal eyes stare
while dinner is served.

I penned the above poem when I was thinking back on a few streamside meals I have had over the years. I have practiced catch and release for over 20 years or longer, but there was a time when I kept many of my catches. I remember when I was single and doing a lot of solo trips, I would make breakfast, lunch, and dinner almost exclusively out of the trout I caught.

There is nothing better than fresh trout cooked in tinfoil over an open fire. This is especially true when you have spent the best part of a day concentrating on fly fishing without the thought of food or water.

If I know I'm going on a long day trip or over-nighter, I will plan to cook a few streamside trout. I put some folded tinfoil, matches, a fork, and a small container of seasoning in my day-pack. After fishing for a few hours, I will keep a couple of trout, clean them, wrap them in the foil, and then build a small stick fire. It's a quick and delicious streamside meal. The nourishment allows me to continue fishing into the evening.

In the poem, I write about "faint ghosts caught in the breeze." This is in reference to a belief that all creatures have a spirit. I was told by someone years ago that some fish eating native American tribes after catching and cleaning a fish would hang the heads of the fish in the trees along the river so the spirit of the fish could enter back into them, and the waters would always have fish in them. I don't know if this is true or if it was just a story, but I like the idea.

My first real sign that spring is here has always been when the Blue-winged Olive mayflies start to hatch on my local waters. This will happen sometime in March. It is a time of awakening, not only for the mayflies, but for the trout. It's not that far away--still, I can't wait!